


no answers for no questions asked

by tonberrys



Series: renascentia: between the lines [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Cutting (In the Cave - Not Purposeful Self-Harm), Death Eaters, Down with Lord Voldemort, Drowning, First War with Voldemort, Fix-It, Gen, Horcruxes, Intellectual BAMF Regulus Black, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Low-Key Suicidal Thoughts (But More Self-Justification of Own Impending Death), Marauders' Era, POV Regulus Black, POV Third Person, Pureblood Society, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus and Barty are Best Friends, Regulus and Kreacher are Best Friends, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberrys/pseuds/tonberrys
Summary: When Regulus volunteers Kreacher for Lord Voldemort's mysterious task, what he expects to be a vaulting honour crushes his world at its very foundation. Throwing himself into a whirlwind of research, he learns of the dark secret that changes the course of his life in more drastic ways than he ever could have imagined. Faced with death if he leaves, or death of self if he stays, Regulus makes a choice that shapes events to come, over a decade later.





	no answers for no questions asked

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon-compliant up until the final scene, which marks the AU turning point for the _Renascentia_ -verse.
> 
> As noted in most of the other one-shots, this one mentions events/details that occur in other parts of the _Renascentia_ series, but it can be read alone too.

_’I require an elf for a task of great import, and of utmost secrecy.’_

As Regulus sipped a cup of tea and looked upon Kreacher -- who was presently polishing the silver in the kitchen -- within his mind, the Dark Lord’s words still swarmed thick and momentous, a buzz of curiosity and one of bestowed honour.

 _’You make me proud, Regulus’_ Bellatrix had said afterward, her gaze potent and razor-sharp. She could have offered her elf just as easily before any had the chance to speak, but she had met his eyes in an instant. This was her gift to him, perhaps. _’For it is in service to our Lord that a new and better future will rise from the rubble. A future where no witch or wizard need hide, and where the muggle scum know their place.’_

The Dark Lord did not make house calls, naturally, so it was Regulus’s responsibility to direct his elf to the proper location at the proper time. It did not do to dwell long on the mysteries of the Dark Lord’s secrets, and entrusted or not, such curiosities were not his place. Out of respect for such mysteriousness, he oughtn’t try to imagine what grand task his elf -- so trod upon by the wizarding world, so overlooked -- would be entrusted with, granted by the Dark Lord himself, but he entertained the thoughts nonetheless. He imagined Kreacher fighting off muggles with a butter knife brandished as a makeshift wand, imagined him sneaking in to spy where elves go unnoticed, perhaps harnessing Kreacher’s elf magic for some unique purpose or another…

Comical and a bit irreverent, perhaps, but it brought a small, strained smile to his face, and such were few and far between, these days. Even now, over a month since the funeral, the loss of his father stabbed fresh, and the unresolved hypocrisy of the circumstances hung heavy. Uncertainty filled the empty spaces that he did not stuff to the brim with distraction.

Any such distraction, any grasp for meaning and _purpose_ was like a small light in the dark, a rope to grasp in the fall. To such things, he held tightly.

“Kreacher,” he said then, setting the tea on the table and rising from the chair, only to kneel on the floor again where his elf sat amidst their silver, polishing it and sorting it with his own brand of magic. “I need to talk to you for a moment.”

“Kreacher will hear anything Master Regulus has to say,” the elf said, offering his rapt attention at once.

“The Dark Lord requires an elf,” he began, “and I volunteered you for the task. It is a great honour -- for you, and for me. I do not know what grand plans He has in store, but you must do whatever He instructs you to do.” At the elf’s surprised (but altogether devoted) expression, Regulus smiled again. “When you are done, come back home. I know you will do well. You are the best elf He could ever call upon, and He will see that, for certain.”

“Thoughtful Master Regulus, honouring Kreacher so,” the elf said emphatically, gazing upward with determination, “Kreacher will make the young master proud...”

“I know you will,” the boy said with a nod. “When the time comes, I will send you to Him. Whatever He wants of you, it sounds important. Perhaps this will be the next step for us.”

* * *

Time passed at a crawl, while Kreacher was away. Holed away in the parlour with his studies, Regulus had made every attempt to bury his thoughts as thoroughly as he had buried every other surface in the room, but to no avail. Even with NEWTs fast-approaching -- mere months away, now, as he settled into his spring holiday -- all he could think about was Kreacher and the grand mystery. As it was, imagining Kreacher sneaking through the walls of some distant stronghold somewhere was doing little to support the completion of his Charms review.

Absently rubbing his thumb over the monogramed inscription on his quill (R.A.B. - a gift from his parents, though it had seen some wear in the past seven years), Regulus released a huff of air and leaned back into the pillow situated against the arm of the sofa, propping the book up with his legs and planting his socked feet squarely on the cushions. Feet did not have a place on the sofa, he knew all too well, but his mother had gone to bed some time before, and the stiffness in his shoulders called for an adjustment that proper sitting could not quite accommodate.

When the cracking _pop_ cut through the silence some time later, Regulus started so suddenly he nearly dropped his textbook on the floor.

Immediately, Regulus’s eyes shot to the elf standing in the middle of the parlour, head bowed deeply. Water was pooling around Kreacher’s bare feet as a series of terrible, shuddering gasps sent chills down his master’s spine. Immediately Regulus stood -- the Charms book dropping unceremoniously to the sofa -- and closed the distance between himself and the elf. 

“What happened?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper, as if the crush of nervousness was closing in around his throat as roughly as it was his heart. All at once, he thought of his father’s face, cold and pallid and still, caught in a crossfire he had no place being caught in. Regulus did not much like the implications in such a connection. “Are you okay?”

"Kreacher did as Master Regulus said,” the elf choked out, wringing his hands, “Kreacher did as the Dark Lord said..."

A cold, sinking feeling dropped in Regulus’s stomach.

“Tell me what happened,” Regulus said again, more firmly, as worry darkened his expression.

The house-elf coughed again -- a horrid, wet sound -- and seemed to steel himself before continuing, "...The Dark Lord brought Kreacher to a cave, dark and cold...crossed a lake, a very black lake with faces in the water...The Dark Lord had a locket, told Kreacher to drink the potion, and Kreacher did, and Kreacher was so thirsty he might burst. Kreacher felt such pain and saw terrible things, such terrible things. Master Regulus was - and the Mistress-” Clenching his eyes closed, Kreacher covered the twisting lines of his face with the look of someone who might crumble to tears at any second.

Each frantic word clenched harder and harder in Regulus’s chest, and leaning forward he placed a hand on each of the elf’s shoulders, ignoring the chilly water soaking through the knees of his trousers as he adjusted his balance. Potions, pain, terrible visions that had him _shaking_ -

What had the Dark Lord _done_ to Kreacher?

“Then what happened? Why are you wet?”

"Kreacher needed a drink of water, desperate, so thirsty...the Dark Lord was gone, wouldn't give any water to Kreacher, left him to drink from the great black lake...but terrible things were in the water, grabbing with cold hands, pulling Kreacher down, down... Kreacher couldn't breathe, couldn’t see…” The elf lifted his eyes to meet Regulus’s, terror still lingering even as his expression shifting to something gentler, “But the young master told Kreacher to come back...so Kreacher came back."

Wintry gusts blew through Regulus like a blizzard, turning his thoughts to ice. Kneeling still as a statue in the deafening silence, Kreacher’s words sank in, settled, curled around each other in powdered droves and clung to darkened edges of his mind. The Dark Lord could not have intended for Kreacher to escape the lake, not if He left him there to drown.

No, the Dark Lord had meant to kill Kreacher that night, to discard him like some old rag without word or warning.

His grip tightened around the elf’s shoulders as a sickening mix of fear and shock and cold fury exploded in his chest. “You mustn’t tell anyone,” Regulus said quietly, heart thundering so loudly in his chest he thought the sound was certain to wake his mother floors above them. He glanced upward, then down again. “Not even my mother. Say nothing to _anyone_ except for myself, no exceptions.” His own voice was shaking, and as if realising his hands were still grasping the elf, he looked down and let go in a sudden, jolting movement.

Taking a steadying breath, and another, Regulus curled his fingers tightly in his sleeves and tapped them against his legs, as if the steady movement would knock his clamoring thoughts into a rhythm he could process.

Would the Dark Lord realise Kreacher had survived? Would Kreacher be killed anyway, to protect whatever it is the Dark Lord went to such lengths to hide?

A locket, Kreacher had said. How could some _stupid_ locket be more important than Kreacher’s life?

Twisting backward to the table, he grabbed his wand to cast a swift round of drying and warming spells on house-elf and flooring alike, though Kreacher’s expression remained contorted and his arms crossed tightly, even as dryness and warmth returned.

“Was there anything special about the locket?” Regulus asked, supposing there must have been but unable to imagine what it could be, to require security measures that ended in the premeditated murder of a loyal, if uninformed, volunteer. Why go to all that trouble? It was a piece of jewelry, and not even family heirlooms needed that sort of protection. A dangerous artifact? But why hide, rather than use it?

“It was golden, with green stones like an S. Kreacher looked at it, it felt wrong, but it was just a locket…”

“I see…”

There was no way it could be just a locket -- Regulus was certain of that much -- but it sounded as though the Dark Lord had not conveniently monologued about His hidden treasure. Unfortunate, of course, but curiosity mingled with the fanning flames, and his fingers clasped knuckle-white around his wand. 

‘Accidental collateral’ or not, it was his own comrade’s negligence that had killed Orion Black, and it was the Dark Lord’s intentional lack of regard that had nearly murdered Kreacher in turn. If his own family couldn’t be protected, _what was the point_? The war was a disaster, killing people left and right, and for what? What did it matter if they would all be dead in the end, dead or imprisoned, or so far removed from their own humanity that living beings lose their meaning? He had trapped people last summer, left them to burn and die, killed someone’s _mother and father_ and walked away with accolades.

 _Killed a witch and a wizard,_ in cold blood -- helped terrorize others, over Christmas holidays, of all things -- and for _what_?

His head was screaming as he stood, gathered his books in the bag he’d carried them in, and slung it over his shoulder with a distant expression. “Go to bed, get some rest,” he said, detachment stretching and softening his tone. “You’re okay, now. Do whatever you must to feel comfortable.” (As comfortable as one could be, in this nightmare.)

Up the stairs, Regulus tread quiet and soft, with treachery thundering in his skull.

* * *

Their father’s study was a place of quiet reverence and reference, off limits for much of their childhood and a rare honour, when entrance was granted. The door had not been touched since Orion Black had passed the month before. No one would be there, no one would be disturbed, no one would tell him he could not go inside-

-Yet Regulus felt something like an intruder as he creaked open the door, finding it every bit as orderly as he knew it would be.

He did not take many books from his father’s personal study, narrowing his material to enchantments, artifacts, and the like, yet he still whispered a scarcely audible “sorry” to the stale surroundings as he closed the door behind him again.

Texts from the study, texts from their more public bookshelves -- spreading them across his bed, he did not know where to start, but his Charms review had been well-forgotten as a sense of steely purpose took hold.

“What are you hiding?” Regulus muttered to himself as he opened the cover of the first book.

* * *

When one faced the impending conclusion of a spring holiday with nothing of substance to show for one’s efforts in research, it was family that so oft provided that support, in ways they did not always know.

‘ _Bella,_ ’ he had written in careful hand, his owl Canopus hooting softly beside him on the desk,‘ _I have taken a certain interest in a subject of uncommon availability. Might I peruse your collection, before I return again to school? R.A.B.’_

His cousin had welcomed him with enthusiasm.

“What are you interested in?” she asked as they stepped off the stairs leading them upward through the grand manor.

“Enchantments...the sort that don't show up in my NEWT level textbooks,” he began, his mask painted well across his face. 

“Well, I have plenty of those. I am delighted as ever by your interest, but what brought this on? Are you not busy studying for your NEWTs?” Bellatrix asked with an arched eyebrow/

“I am, and it's valuable, certainly… But I thought I might benefit from some perspective.” He felt bile rolling hot and acidic as he leveled her a ‘meaningful’ glance. “Something relevant to my life on a...grander scale. I might like to see some texts on uncommon dark artifacts, as well, if you can accommodate. We have so many as it is, but with such responsibilities as we have, in all things we must think of what _will_ be -- beyond what _is_.”

“Beautifully said, Regulus,” Bellatrix praised, and the pride in her eyes made his chest ache. “You are flourishing, as we knew you would. To take such initiative beyond your training, even in the wake of tragedy, shows how far you have come and how much you have grown. Your recognition of that which is beyond your NEWTs proves a maturity beyond your peers, and I am proud of you.”

“Thank you, Bella.” He forced a smile. “I would not be where I am today without your guidance.”

* * *

By the time students were filtering back into the grand halls of Hogwarts, the end of April was fast approaching, and only seven weeks stood between Regulus and his NEWTs. He knew his life was spread out before him, that every logical and self-preserving thought indicated he was misallocating his time with this locket preoccupation, yet for every chapter studied, he thumbed through several more of the chapters from texts he'd borrowed from Bella. Many were informative: instructing on how to anchor wards to objects, how to link a cursed artifact to react to a particular person, how to enchant an object to be disguised as something else until a certain trigger reverts it... Interesting though the knowledge might be, it was not what he sought, and something more than mere interest lit fire beneath his feet -- but even as he cast each book aside, he could not say _what it was_ he sought. 

One text in particular struck him as most promising to risk lugging background to school -- disguised as a book about quidditch and altogether unremarkable, of course, for its promise was precisely the reason he would be in terrible trouble if anyone read its true contents -- yet he had little time for perusing as classes began again, and Slytherin’s match against Hufflepuff was creeping up quickly. As captain, he ought to be focusing on his teammates, pushing them to their limits, but not even his love for the game could dim his fixation on the Dark Lord’s grand secret. Somehow, it felt childish to be playing games at such a time, and if something truly big was afoot, he could not ignore it, inter-House competitions or not.

Then there were NEWTs, hovering over their heads as some vaulted culmination of their Hogwarts careers… Prefect duties. His final Slug Club meetings.

Regulus was certain he could bring it all together, somehow. (He just needed time.)

* * *

_Horcrux._

The word buzzed in Regulus’s mind as he dipped his head closer to the page, blanket pulled securely overhead to block the soft light coming from the tip of his wand. His dormmates had long-since fallen asleep, and exhaustion had been beckoning his eyes to close for some time, but a sudden wave of curiosity pricked like a splash of ice water, and though the description was short, his thoughts were reeling.

An object so dark and secretive that even the book describing it didn’t actually describe it in any meaningful sort of way, on a page full to the brim with repulsively dark magic. It was little to go on, but his interest was piqued, and if a tome as aggressive as this one shied away from this ‘horcrux,’ perhaps it was something worthy of even the Dark Lord’s interest and precaution. Searching the index and searching the pages of both books turned up no further explanation, striking a dead end almost as soon as he had set down the path, but he committed his new target to memory, tucked safely and securely within his head. It had been some time since he had given way to curiosity and perused the Restricted Section, but ever there was a time to dig deep into the forbidden, it was now.

* * *

Regulus could not decide if his late father would be proud of him for his plans to implement alarm wards that bordered on paranoid, or if he would be disappointed by the root reason for his son’s sneaking about, but Regulus liked to think it would be the former.

Orion Black had instructed him in utilizing silent alarms the summer before, when Regulus received his Mark and began preparing for a more active role amongst the Death Eaters’ numbers. You could not always rely on the safety of your surroundings, his father would say, but that did not mean you could not provide yourself the tools to predict that level of safety at any given moment. To err on the side of precaution was the thinking man’s game, that which separated the wise from the impulsive, and Regulus was nothing if not a thinker.

The original alarm was meant to resonate a frequency reserved for the listeners included in the ward, but with the scope of distance he wished to cover, relying on the projection of sound alone was less than ideal, however protected the sound might be. Recalling a passage from one of the books he had been pouring over, there was a section on attaching wards to various objects to make them the grounding source of the ward itself, thus rendering the ward more difficult to tear down by an assaulting force. He had never attempted anything of the sort before, but the portability could be critical if he was wandering into the Restricted Section. Getting caught had never been an option in his previous nighttime ventures to the library, but this was not a pleasure run to ease his itch for knowledge. Anything he did not accomplish tonight would need to be arranged again -- and to do as much would increase the risk even more.

After a week of trialing attempts in private moments between classes or late into the night, Regulus had finally settled on a product he saw fit to test. The experiment would be simple, and hopefully elegantly undetectable, if his spellcasting was a solid as he hoped. Using a band around his wrist as the anchor and the door to their room as the target location, the stage was set. Barty was the first to wake, rising with the sun and beckoning Regulus to come along with him to breakfast (no amount of pretending could have convinced his friend that he was sleeping in, for Regulus Black was not the sort to waste the morning away), but after some measure of convincing, he urged Barty on his way. A traitorous thrill rose in his chest when the band warmed against his skin as Barty passed the threshold of the door, disappearing out into the hall.

And again, when Kubo followed some ten minutes later.

Then Baddock.

Then Lithgow.

All day, he wore the band, feeling its warm warning when some dormmate or another returned to the room -- for a forgotten textbook, an assignment, a nap, it hardly mattered -- and again in the evening as everyone tucked away to their beds for the night. All day, the ward had held, and although he could not confirm if there were any returns that his band did not register, he had observed each departure and return with his own eyes, and that was reassurance enough for him. Some measure of guilt prickled at the back of his mind, holding back from Barty as he was, but this was too important to risk other eyes. Not until he knew what he was dealing with.

And with this, he could finally set his plan in motion.

* * *

There was something grand and majestic about the Hogwarts corridors -- _historical_ , covered to the fullest with portraits and connected by their ever-changing staircases. These corridors led students through particular paths, parallel, so rarely crossing before spitting them out in any number of directions at the end. The Slytherin dungeons, the Hufflepuff kitchens, the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Sitting atop his head, the Sorting Hat had offered him a life in Ravenclaw -- life as a disappointment, at the root of it, no matter how much more offensive Sirius’s den of lions would always be. Regulus did not feel ill-fit to his House and their drive for greatness, but as schemes and wards burned at the back of his mind, he wondered if it might have been less stressful, in the long-run, to just be a disappointment like his brother had been. (Would Sirius still have left him?)

There was nothing to be gained in dwelling on such things, Regulus knew, and yet his mood dimmed more with each soft-footed step.

He took in each corner he rounded, the way the halls connected, their width and their distance from the library, the entrance, the various dorms, the high-frequency straggler spots he had busted many a time over the years. If he was to make the most of his little experiment, the perfect locations would need to be planned prior to implementation, so as to ensure the smoothest execution -- and Regulus Black’s execution would be perfect.

The wards were best placed in the general vicinity of the library -- yet far enough away to allow for him to slip out from the library without risking a visual from down the corridor...one from each direction, naturally, taking advantage of the shielding angles when possible. Placing an alarm ward at the entrance to the castle would be beneficial for tracking exits and entries, if all went according to plan...

Passing through a small connecting corridor, Regulus’s eyes flicked to a nook nestled in the middle -- a woven tapestry of the four Founders, unassuming in the swarm of living portraits, however meaningful their history. How different, they must have been, to leave such Houses as their legacies. Ravenclaws were not so bad, however fervently he had rejected their House, yet the thought of trying to build a noble place of learning with the help of any of the lions up in their vaulted tower made him sick to his stomach. It was no small wonder the Founders ended their partnership in a tiff. 

For a moment, Regulus paused in his step, eyes brushing over each of the Founders in turn. Gryffindor with his gleaming sword; Hufflepuff cradling her golden cup; Ravenclaw donning what would have certainly been a sparkling diadem upon her head; and Slytherin, fingers steepled over a thick-chained locket around his neck.

Regulus own fingers reached out to trace the curl of the S, emerald stones inset along the front of its golden casing. A golden locket with an S -- cast in the sickly green glow of a potion, hidden away in some dreary cave… He could see Kreacher clutching such a locket, shaking as that terrible poison was forced down his throat. In a forceful jolt, Regulus’s fist gripped around the threads of the tapestry, nearly yanking it down from the wall as his eyes crushed to a close. 

Salazar Slytherin’s locket -- or perhaps a replica? -- would certainly communicate the greater meaning attached to the greatest of their Founders, at least to those who placed stock in things of that nature. Real or fake, such an artifact was to be boasted and shown, not hidden away, or it held no power in itself. In the same right, if the Dark Lord was going for grandeur in his secrecy, such a locket would hit the mark. Kreacher’s descriptions seemed obvious now -- as Regulus released his grip to step back, he looked at the green-stoned S, and thought it made terribly perfect sense, but somehow the truth of it felt a little dirty, the great Slytherin’s locket being used for a task that had nearly killed Kreacher.

Uncomfortably, he took a few more steps back, lingered a breath longer, then began walking down the tiny corridor once again. Regulus needed to know what the Dark Lord had done to that locket -- _Slytherin’s locket_ \-- and access to the Restricted Section would soon creep into reach...

* * *

Two more had passed before his opportunity arose -- prefect rounds with one of the Hufflepuff prefects, a muggle-born girl who was as happy to conduct their rounds separately as he himself was, though for different reasons than he might normally emphasise.

It was not the first time he had helped himself to the curiosities of the Restricted Section, and depending upon how successful this trip was, it mightn’t be the last, but he would play his cards carefully, nonetheless. There was never a time he _wanted_ Filch’s attention, but he could not risk leaving it to chance, tonight.

“Filch.” Regulus approached, allowing the subtle flicker of conspiracy to color his otherwise exasperated expression. “The boldness of my fellow students never ceases to distress me.”

“What sort of boldness is it today?” the man asked, his raspy voice rising with interest, and Regulus was careful to modulate his own satisfaction to that which Filch might expect from tattling. Fortunately, Filch expected a great deal of satisfaction from tattling, both real and fabricated.

“I cannot decide if it is a lack of respect for myself, for you, or for our esteemed school’s perfectly reasonable rules, but I overheard two students making plans to sneak off to the Astronomy Tower tonight,” Regulus said with a roll of his eyes, arms folding loosely across his chest.

“Which students?” Filch asked with a little more enthusiasm than Regulus thought was entirely necessary, however much it suited.

“I don’t know their names,” Regulus said, injecting a proper degree of scorn, “Some Gryffindors. I do not think they realised I overheard them, but honestly, seeing as they’re Gryffindors, they might do it even if they _did_ know I overheard them. You know how those types are.”

Filch agreed wholeheartedly, as expected.

“They did not state a specific time, but it sounded as though it would be sometime around 10 o’clock. There are no astronomy classes tonight, so I suppose they assumed there was less chance of being caught. I intend to patrol separately from the other prefect tonight to allow us to cover more ground, watching for the stragglers,” Regulus added meaningfully, and then he waited -- the bait was set, and…

“I will watch the tower,” Filch said with a cruel smile on his face, “Catch them in the act.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

Darkness fell over the castle, quiet and still. _’Keep an especially sharp eye on the path from the Gryffindor tower out to the grounds,’_ he had told the Hufflepuff prefect as they split off, _’Mischief is afoot tonight.’_

Regulus began his rounds as usual, linking alarm wards to bands (little more than enchanted cloths) on his ankles, wrists, and a necklace hanging low around his neck. He had hoped to associate the temperature of the object with the triggering of wards at different distances -- cold for those wards placed at the entrance of the castle, growing progressively warmer and hotter still as they were tripped closer to the library -- but the idea had come far too late, and he had not yet found how to manipulate the temperature consistently. Instead, the less efficient but no less effective method of multiple anchors would have to do, with those on his ankles representing those farthest away, and the one around his neck signifying the library; his wrists would represent warnings in between.

If only he had dedicated such efforts earlier in his Hogwarts career, he might have had a less anxious time of his late-night ventures.

When at last Regulus reached the library, he eyed each corridor before slipping through the door and casting the final spell, linked around his neck. Theoretically, the other alarms ought to tip him off with enough time to slip out into the corridor again before anyone ever reached these doors, but he could not rely too heavily on theory and experimental spellcasting, however well the testing phase had gone. As it was, he could not even differentiate Filch from his fellow prefect from an _actual_ straggler, but there was no time to get lost in the holes of the plan.

There was research to be done.

Creeping silently along the rows of shelves and strolling unceremoniously past the rope barrier blocking off the restricted books, Regulus picked a shelf and spared one final glance around before casting a silent _Lumos_ spell. Quickly he began skimming each table of contents, one after another. Many of these books he had investigated thoroughly enough that he was confident no mention of ‘horcruxes’ would be found, yet for every book he had read, there were several more he had not. He harbored some prickling concern that any mention of the ‘horcrux’ may not merit a heading, if the other tome was anything to go by, but if the book was too frightened to give the subject its own heading, arguably it would have nothing of worth to tell him.

Nearly a full hour had passed before he felt the heat of his left ankle-band, telling of a distant approach. It was not associated with the direction he would expect Filch to come from when returning from the grounds -- perhaps the other prefect, perhaps a fellow student out of bed -- but he was nearing the end of his rounds, and getting caught out of bed beyond his allotted patrol time was not something that ‘being a prefect’ could shield him from. Closing the book he had been holding and replacing it on the shelf, Regulus looked at the books situated next along the line and wrote them down. Without knowing what was in them, he did not want to risk an official request to Madam Pince (NEWT student or not), but at the least, he would know where to start, next time.

The hallway was empty as he closed the heavy library door behind himself, and with each step he took away from his task, he felt relief and a small measure of satisfaction swelling in his chest. It has not been strictly successful in the goal-achieving sense -- he was no closer to understanding what a horcrux was and why it was so secret -- but he felt a tentative assurance in the replicability of his plan. Remaining mindful of Filch would be important: after all, it would become suspicious to present tips that never resulted in successful busts. However, with continued experimentation and fine-tuning, perhaps the silent alarms would provide enough information, independent of a diversion (real or falsified), that Filch would be of negligible concern.

Upon returning to his dorm, he saw the other four boys were already sleep, and only the sound of Lithgow’s quiet snoring disturbed the stillness of the night. Carefully Regulus untied each band from his ankles and wrists, pulled the necklace from his neck -- labeling each with an unrelated symbol and tucking them beneath his mattress.

* * *

Three more times, Regulus visited the Restricted Section: growing bolder, staying later, skimming book after book and pouring over the pages for any clues he might have missed, if this ‘horcrux’ ended up a dead end, after all. He could think of little else -- on the Pitch, in the classroom, sitting at supper with his friends -- his mind turning over what he’d read, postulating connections, new angles to consider…

The third time, he found Barty sitting up in bed and watching the door, a textbook open on his lap, though the other boy’s bright blue eyes had already been locked on the door when it opened.

“Prefect rounds ran late tonight,” Barty noted in a whisper as Regulus walked to his bed, toeing off his shoes and awkwardly trying to nudge the cloth around his ankles into his shoes without notice.

It was obvious to both of them, the unlikelihood of Regulus patrolling the halls past one o’clock in the morning, and Barty’s tone spoke volumes more than the words themselves. Convicting, but not unkind -- curious, if perhaps concerned. More than anyone, Regulus wanted to pull Barty into the quest for knowledge, to have a teammate to bounce ideas off of -- but more than anyone, Barty would be the most dangerous to tell, no matter how close they were. Everything was too uncertain, people were dying who oughtn’t be dying, and keeping Barty far from that investigation was safer than pulling him into something Regulus shouldn’t be privy to in the first place. This was his own responsibility.

When Regulus pulled through to the other side, surely Barty would understand the distance.

“I suppose I must have been lost in thought.”

 _For over two hours past patrol?_ , Barty’s expression seemed to say, but it wasn’t until Regulus was crawling into bed that he spoke again.

“NEWTs are in three weeks… Strange to think how close we are to being finished with this place,” Barty had closed his textbook now, shoved it off without much thought as he settled down, arms circling his pillow with his chin propped atop it.

The next bed over, Regulus mirrored the movement.

“Are you upset because we lost the match against Hufflepuff?” Barty continued after a quiet moment, voice still low. “If Baddock is still being a prick about it, just let me know. I told him I would turn him into a toad and use him in a potion for my exam, but I don’t think he took it as seriously as he should. That is fairweather friendship, for you.”

“He hasn’t said anything,” Regulus mumbled, rolling onto his back to stare up at the bedhangings, their emerald and silver swaths framing his vision. “I just have a lot on my mind, I suppose.”

“This stress will all be over soon. Just don’t kill yourself studying. You’re going to be fine,” Barty said, re-settling himself as he rolled over. “And I mean that.”

“I know,” Regulus returned quietly, though Regulus could not say for sure which remark he was answering.

* * *

Free periods were more and more abundant for the seventh year students, as their exams drew nearer and nearer. Having exhausted the information he could pull out from Restricted Section with only a week and a half until his exams, Regulus knew he ought to throw himself more thoroughly into his actual studies, but to stop now would feel like giving up.

He was not a quitter.

Once again, Regulus sent a letter to his eldest cousin, requesting access to the library once more. Her response had been somewhat puzzled, with so little time before the end of the term, yet she had consented no less -- seemingly more happy to bask in his enthusiasm than to question his timing.

Slipping away would not be as difficult as it might otherwise be, and yet-

“Are you seriously spending our last Hogsmeade trip at the Lestranges? In a few weeks, you can go there anytime you like,” Barty remarked with bafflement as they broke away from the throngs of other Hogwarts students.

“Not the whole trip, hopefully,” Regulus corrected vaguely.

“Are you having some V.I.P. family-only session without me?” Barty crossed his arms, though his expression was more akin to envy than annoyance.

“I will try to be back in time for a butterbeer.”

“And I will enjoy your butterbeer thoroughly, if you are not.”

“Sounds fair.”

* * *

When Regulus arrived at the Lestrange Manor with a telltale pop just outside their wards, Bellatrix was quick to usher him inside and upstairs, knowing time was limited. She told him that he continued to surprised her with his willingness to place self-improvement over the frivolities of a Hogsmeade trip, and though her statement was not entirely informed, he could not help a small measure of self-indulgent delight. 

She was right in thinking he was expanding the breadth of his knowledge, if not in the respect she thought.

Again she left him to peruse, and again he began flipping through the headings of book after book. He had half a mind to simply try summoning books about horcruxes, but it could either turn up nothing, or it could dump a mountain on him. Given his location, he was not certain which would be worse. Instead, he skimmed the titles, discounting those he had already checked in his own home and in the Hogwarts library, honing in on those that were yet unfamiliar. Sitting on the floor at the bottom edge of the first shelf, he pulled out a text with black leather binding, clearly aged but in good condition, considering. 

_Secrets of the Darkest Art,_ it was called.  
Regulus Black did love secrets.

The book looked somewhat unassuming, as far as dark arts texts often went. It did not spray poisonous dust or scream or attempt to land a bite. It did not have any bloodstains, real or illustrated. It was thick with knowledge, however, and that was all Regulus needed in a book. Cracking it open, his eyes skimmed the contents -- stopping dead some two-thirds of the way down the list.

Horcruxes.  
A section on horcruxes.

For a frozen moment, Regulus’s heart thundered in his chest with force enough to make his head spin. When finally his fingers were accepting commands from his head, Regulus flipped to the indicated page, pulling his knees up to curl himself around the book. Fervently, he read, sponging up every word as a harrowing sense of dread pooled in the pit of his stomach.

A shard of one’s soul, it said, split away by means of murder. Immortality, twisted and hollow and contained within an everyday object. Such as a locket. Slytherin’s locket.

 _I found it,_ he thought numbly, staring at the words but no longer taking them in. _This must be it. Immortality. He seeks immortality. Of course._

The Dark Lord, never dying. (His Death Eaters and their fathers and their house-elves, dying in droves.)

Regulus could not say how long he sat staring at the page, but when the heavy click of the door sounded behind him, he snapped to attention, shoving the book in his bag in an impulsive rush as his heartbeat roared fresh in his head. Nervously he grabbed another black-bound book from the shelf and shoved it in place, running an adjusting brush across the line to make it look a little less like one was missing. By the time Bellatrix reached him, Regulus was already standing with a different book in his hand, olive green and detailing some rather nasty potions, if the cover was anything to go by.

“Did you find what you need?” she asked, eyes falling on the book -- now clutched rather securely to his chest.

“I did,” he muttered, willing his voice to strengthen when he spoke again, “Thank you, Bella.”

Her gaze lingered for a nerve-wracking moment, but whatever it was she was considering, she seemed to land at a positive conclusion. “Anytime, for you.”

* * *

Regulus was sticking the potions book in his bag when Barty noticed him standing outside of The Three Broomsticks. “Reg!” he called out as he opened the door to usher his friend inside. Come on-” Upon seeing Regulus’s face, he paused, brow furrowing. “Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.”

Gripping the strap of his bag, Regulus nodded, trying to push down the queasy feeling in his stomach. “I’m fine.”

Barty did not look entirely convinced, but from behind his head, Avery peeked around with a smile. “You made it! Barty told us you were going on an ‘extracurricular’ trip of your own. Are you trying to outdo us all?”

Surprise alone was enough to snap Regulus to attention. “Avery?”

“The others are here too. Barty mentioned-” (Barty shot him a look) “-that your final Hogsmeade had come, and that’s a big deal.”

Regulus forced his mouth into something like a smile, trying not to look as miserable as he felt.

“Come on in. There should be time for one more butterbeer,” Avery said, leading the two of them back to a table.

Regulus’s fingers were gripped white around the strap of his bag, and with each step he reminded himself to breathe, trying not to think of the locket in a green-glowing basin somewhere, containing a broken off piece of the Dark Lord’s soul. A locket Kreacher had nearly died to hide. A secret no one else knew -- or could know. Everyone was laughing around him -- students filled the room, completely ignorant, enjoying completely meaningless things, and he couldn’t figure out of that sharp feeling in his chest was annoyance or envy.

Beside him, Barty’s brow was still furrowed, eyes flicking down to the white-knuckled grasp and back to his friend’s face once again. “Are you sure you’re alright? We can duck out early.”

“I’m fine.” The words were so automatic, Regulus scarcely realised he was saying them until they had passed his lips.

Whatever response Barty might have had was cut off by a chorus of greetings from the table; Regulus felt the other boy’s piercing gaze bore a hole in the side of his head, accompanied by a guilty twist in his stomach. Taking an empty seat, Regulus forcibly lifted his eyes to acknowledge the table. Barty Crouch, Lorcan Mulciber, Severus Snape, Evan Rosier, Leander Wilkes, Sebastian Avery... A table of his friends. A table of Death Eaters.

For the first time since Kreacher arrived home, sopping wet, Regulus had no idea what he was going to do.

* * *

_Secrets of the Darkest Art_ burned at the back of Regulus’s mind that night, though he daren’t open it back up, even alone in his dorm while the others were at supper. Over and over, he played the scene of Kreacher at the lake, clutching Slytherin’s locket, suffering as the Dark Lord stood and watched. All shadows and haze, he could not -- or perhaps would not -- imagine it with true clarity beyond the agonized rasp of his house-elf’s voice, but that rasp was enough to hold his thoughts hostage. Kreacher’s life for the Dark Lord’s... Most would say it was a perfect trade, but his entire body clenched with anger whenever he thought about it.

Immortality. Their hallowed master, living forever as they died in his name.  
Ancient bloodlines dying out one by one, all in his name.  
Cutting out His soul, literally severing it to stuff away for safe-keeping.  
(Clearly, the Dark Lord wasn’t using that soul _anyway_.)

The war, their Cause, it all felt cheapened -- ignorant children playing at some charade like fools, pawns in a powerplay they could not even see. Taking lives, even _magical lives_ , to prove a point, and every line drawn in the sand was trampled over with fervor. What good was it to walk the streets openly amongst the subjugated muggles if your family and friends were dead, broken, imprisoned? What could be truly gained by detaching from that part of your soul that made you a _person_? That suffered at suffering? That wanted to make the world _better_?

A horcrux was a soul split by murder, harnessed for immortality, twisted and abhorrent. 

Regulus had helped facilitate the death of two people, the night he earned his Mark. Sometimes, he could see the flames rise up behind his eyes when he clenched them closed, and no matter how deeply he buried his face into his pillow, the horrifying well of tears just burned hotter. Pulling the covers over his head and tucking tightly like a cocoon, he felt a quiet, half-choked sob escape unbidden before he could muffle his face in the pillow once again -- breathing slowly, shakily, softly.

There was blood on his hands, death tattooed on his arm like a brand. If killing someone could rip at your soul, what was the state of his own?

* * *

No one remarked on Regulus’s absence from dinner, nor the peculiar, cocooning wrap of his covers. Regulus arranged his day to avoid remarks of any sort or subject. Rising early and gathering textbooks to study, he wandered to the Great Hall in a haze; nibbled on breakfast he scarcely tasted; drifted out onto the grounds and saw a few other students already peppering the various study spots. The weather was beautiful, morning still stretching slowly up from the horizon and casting a shine across the lake, just a stone’s throw from a beautifully shaded tree; but all he could think about was Kreacher’s lake.

Turning around, he went back inside, making a straight course for the library.

The structure of daily classes had loosened, for the fifth and seventh years, allowing large swaths of time to study frantically for their exams. He had NEWTs to take, a life to live. It was almost comical, in a nauseating way, to remember that life at Hogwarts was progressing as usual, paying no mind to the horrors of his discovery.

Just another day.

And another.

Day after day passed in a blur, and Regulus buried himself in textbooks, fighting off sleep with studying that filled his mind so snugly, he had no room to think. He could not face his friends as it was, not even to study; some of the girls in his year seemed to be planning an intervention of sorts, but something (or perhaps someone) had led them to think better of it. Probably Barty, as it was always Barty; Regulus did not feel particularly deserving, yet he was grateful, no less. 

When at last their exams came, he reached down to find a sharpness of mind, a singular focus, a disconnection from the raging upset within. Some semblance of normalcy seemed almost within grasp, the way Seraphina Travers -- a girl in his year, with wheat-blond hair and a mild disposition -- walked at his side the whole way to their Charms exam, chattering nervously about how stressful it all had been, how wonderful it would be to be done, how the Charms exam was certain to be a success with all their natural talent for it. Her older brother was a Death Eater, he knew, a year older than Narcissa. Andromeda's year. Vaguely, he remembered talk of Travers and his failed attempt to tame Andromeda, back before she ran off with a muggle and was henceforth scorched from the family tree. No one took much interest in her, after that. Regulus thought Sera would probably be less flustered, too, if she were privy to the treacherous thoughts he was fighting so hard to ignore.

Rude though it was, he wished it had been Barty who had found him in the crowd, but he nodded in the appropriate places, all the way to his seat.

Surrounded by the rumble of his fellow NEWT students, Regulus felt less anxious than he had always expected he might be. Beyond the windows of the Great Hall, the sky had swelled to a vivid blue, cloudless and vast. How nice it would be to hop on his broom and soar away, to pretend there were no exams to take, no responsibilities ahead of him, no...

A sharp sound quieted the room, jarring everyone’s attention to the front of the Great Hall where an examiner began detailing the rules and regulations they were expected to follow as they took their coming exams, and for the most part, the crowd of students granted due attention. Silence fell again, some minutes later, and at once, the examinations were distributed with a sweep of the examiner’s wand. Regulus dropped his eyes to the parchment settling down before him, grasping his quill and rubbing his thumb over the monogrammed initials, nearly faded with wear. These motions were familiar -- examinations, their accompanying tests of skill -- and in this, at least, he knew his part well.

* * *

NEWTs passed Regulus by in a blur, going through the motions he always knew he would and feeling each expectation fall off his back like shedded skin. There was a certain liberation in isolation, a certain quietness of mind that trimmed away the chaos of responsibility. When he was a child, he had always thought responsibility would be some controlled thing, stern and firm and grand, but from the moment it had been thrown unexpectedly at his feet, Regulus suffered a constant fight to hold on, to twist his grasp tighter, to anchor himself in place as the storm raged around.

Sitting in the eye of that storm, he felt an eerie sense of tranquility settle over him.

He was going to die. One way or another, he was going to die -- die in battle, die to himself as his assignments grew increasingly sinister… die in a lake, with cold hands clawing.

Celebrations had come and gone. From the moment their last examination concluded, his fellow seventh years were reveling in the the sudden freedom, the exhilaration of an exciting new life rolling out before them like a carpet, and their delight made his chest ache. He, too, ought to be celebrating the pinnacle of his academic career, the opportunity to serve their Lord in a greater capacity, to shape the wizarding world and further a legacy resting solely on his shoulders now.

Staring into the fading embers of their common room fire, Regulus knew he couldn’t do it, couldn’t go back, couldn’t live for his mother or raise his wand in battle for his cousin. Family was precious, family was _everything_ , but while the Dark Lord lived, there would always be too much death and too little regard. While the horcrux remained hidden, the Dark Lord would always live.

They did not see it. For so long, he had not seen it either…

Regulus did not notice the approaching figure until it settled beside him on the sofa. Barty, in grey pajamas and hair half-mussed from sleep. Neither said anything, for a moment, simply watching the dying fire before them. The silence was not so comfortable as it usually was.

“I’ve barely seen you in weeks,” Barty stated, and for a beat, it seemed as though he was going to leave it at that. Smoothing a tangle in his hair, Barty twisted his mouth to a frown. “Since the spring holidays, actually. That’s almost 8 weeks. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind with...” Barty frowned deeper, pausing for a moment before continuing, “...with your father’s death, with NEWTs and quidditch and prefect duties and everything, but- I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I have your back in this, and I can give you your space, but you don’t have to shut me out quite so thoroughly.”

The words hung heavy in the air, stilled in silence, save for the soft crackling of the fireplace. Twisting his fingers into the sleeves of his uniform robes, Regulus nodded, though he didn’t meet his friend’s eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry.” And he was.

Rare as the words were, Barty seemed appeased. Some measure of tension faded from Barty's shoulders, and he leaned back into the sofa, close enough for their shoulders to brush and their knees to bump, lingering in a gentle press. It felt too close and not close enough, all at once, Regulus thought as one whole side of his body seemed to buzz, yet he did not shift away.

“We made it, though,” Barty said, the hint of a smile starting to form on his lips, and at last he shot a sideways glance over to Regulus, their eyes meeting briefly. "NEWTs are behind us, and we are proper adults in all respects, not just age. I'm dreading the Ministry position my father has lined up for me. It’s bound to be awful, but I suppose that isn’t the biggest concern ahead, right? You and I -- we're going to do great things."

Regulus felt something like a soft, choked sound escape his throat, and for a moment Barty looked concerned, presumably until noticing the small smile tugging wryly at Regulus's mouth. "You said that the first time we really talked to each other." The words were quiet, nostalgic, like the wisp of something he couldn’t quite grapple. In his mind's eye, he looked down upon the memory of two boys sitting on their beds with drops of sun and drops of shadow in their hair. 

Barty countered with a flickering smirk. "And I was right, of course.”

“Yes, you were,” Regulus conceded, the words bittersweet on his tongue. Great things, indeed.

“The world is changing around us, shaped by our hands. It is a good feeling, is it not?” his friend continued almost wistfully, reverently, in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. “We have been chosen for distinction, and when this war is over, He will know our names well.”

Regulus nearly lost hold of a humorless laugh, reeling it back in at the last moment. Instead, he watched embers slowly flicker before them, imagining the glint of a golden locket with emerald stones.

“He will.”

* * *

Their return from Hogwarts was heralded with a party that would have made Regulus preen with pride, some months ago. The new graduates (at least those of the pure-blood persuasion) were gathered with family and friends at the Lestrange Manor, though it seemed Narcissa was more the hostess than her elder sister, the way she moved about the room with unparalleled grace and poise. She had always been a natural at parties in a way Bellatrix had not -- and in a way Regulus had not, though for different reasons. He was always a little quiet, a little standoffish, controlling his interactions to as few people at a time as could be managed, but tonight, everyone wanted to talk to him. Everyone wanted something out of him that he did not know how to give -- or rather, knew he could not give -- and deep in his chest, some roaring flame of dissatisfaction burned hot.

Sera had been staring at him for some time, and considering the grins on his elder friends' faces, he wondered if they had said something agonizing to her. He might have played into the fluster, not so long ago, but it didn't matter, now. Not really. Whether she harbored some affections, whether he cared about that at all, whether his friends were angling to get a rise out of his carefully regulated lack-of-a-relationship status -- there was no purpose to that dance when the song was ending soon. The choice was made, the path laid out before him. However stupid it probably was, he could not leave well enough alone. No matter the price, he would take that locket -- and he would do it himself.

"-Traitors to wizardkind, all of them. They will get what's coming to them, someday," Demetrius Travers was saying with a smirk, swirling his blood-red wine before taking a sip. A murmur of consent sounded around him, and casually they picked at hors d'oeuvres laid out on the small table they were standing around.

Silently, Regulus clenched his fist.

“Muggle-lovers are everywhere, these days,” Rabastan piped in with a look of distaste twisting up his nose, “Like cockroaches. Every time you crush one underfoot, another pops up somewhere else.”

Mouth pressing to a severe line, Regulus’s gaze bore hard into the floor, and this time, his friends took notice. “Everything alright, Regulus?” Wilkes asked, exchanging looks with Evan, Avery, and Barty.

“They’re magical, too,” he responded distantly, and his friends made no attempt to hide the confusion on their faces.

“Who are you talking about?” Wilkes asked, looking around the room and back to Regulus again.

“Everyone in the room is magical, buddy,” Avery added, lifting his eyebrows in jest, though the ribbing fell flat as Regulus shook his head.

“The ‘traitors’ and ‘muggle-lovers,’ I mean,” Regulus corrected, his voice tight but even. Immediately, the lighthearted expressions fell grave. 

“They’re talking about the McKinnons, Regulus,” Evan countered with a furrowed brow, glancing around as if to make sure no one around had heard the rogue remark. “You remember McKinnon? Loud, obnoxious Gryffindor? Humiliated us in fourth year? Or I suppose it was your third, but no matter. Not as if that was the only annoyance she brought about. Hangs out with that mudblood Evans?”

“Misguided and aggravating, certainly -- infuriating, even -- but magical,” Regulus said, his words gaining more traction and emphasis as he spoke, “Does it really make sense to kill everyone with a different opinion than you, regardless of their blood? I thought we cared about protecting magic.”

“Regulus,” Barty said, his tone as concerned as it was warning. Turning that look to the other three, he shifted his tone. “It seems our friend is still overstressed from this understandably difficult year. If you could give us a moment.” Back to Regulus once again, he finished, “Come on. You’ve had quite enough.”

“I have had enough, but not of the alcohol, if that’s what you’re implying,” Regulus argued as Barty guided him towards the arching door of the grand dining area, hands firm on each shoulder. “Don’t walk me along like a child. This is important.”

“Please stop talking, for just a moment,” Barty said, glancing backward as subtly as he could and saw that a few people had taken notice of the departure. With luck, they hadn’t heard.

When the heavy wooden had shut behind them with a thud, Barty met his eyes, hands still holding him in place by the shoulders. His tone was hard, nervous, confused when he spoke again. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Don’t you think it’s just a little bit illogical, Barty?” Regulus said, wriggling his shoulders, though the grip remained.

“I do think you are being very illogical, yes.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Regulus crinkled his nose. 

“There are a number of people in that room who would have some _harsh ‘reprimands’_ at best, and a punishment far more _permanent_ at worst, if they heard any of that. You need to stop,” Barty said firmly, holding his friend’s iron gaze.

“But that’s the point,” Regulus said with a measure of exasperation creeping into his tone.

Barty let out a heavy sigh, closed his eyes, and with a sudden, lurching _pop_ , the two of them were yanked from the manor to the moonlit park across from 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Some warning might have been nice,” Regulus remarked with a blink that half-scrunched his face, still feeling the sick rush of apparation releasing its tug on his insides.

“I could say the same to you, after that outburst. I swear, you are like a man possessed,” Barty said with a frowning twist of the mouth as he began nudging Regulus forward again, stepping out through the fencing to cross the street. Before them, 12 Grimmauld Place stretched high and dark towards the sky. “Now come along. You’re going to sleep this off. I don’t know what brought it on, but we both know you can’t possibly mean any of that. You’ve been hurt by traitors more than most, more than anyone should have to bear, but if this is some misplaced attempt to process that, you need to do it quietly, get it out of your system, and move along. Sirius is not your brother anymore, and you cannot forget that, just because you are mourning your father.”

The words were jarring, a harsh yank from the the argument he had been queuing up in his mind. “It’s not about Sirius,” Regulus said a little defensively, though even as he said it, Regulus was not entirely certain that was _completely_ true. Strangely, he hadn’t thought of his brother by name much at all, amidst the chaos of his search, yet the target on Sirius’s back glared as brightly in Regulus’s mind as his own forming target now did.

Barty sighed, leading him up to the doorway.

“I’m not going to run off,” Regulus mumbled, and for all his resistance a moment before, he had to admit he did not really want to go back to the party. He couldn’t go back at all, not tonight, nor any night to come. “You can let go of my shoulders, now.”

“Go on, then,” Barty said, his tone dropping some of the harshness in favor of one urging an exhausted child to nap after an afternoon of stubborn resistance. Somehow, it was not too far off. “Shall I stay and keep you company?”

“I’m just going to go lie down for awhile,” Regulus said, shaking his head, and as he met Barty’s fixed gaze, he once more felt the urge to tell the truth, to tug him inside and tell him about the horcrux and the cave and the lies the Dark Lord was weaving around his pawns, to grasp for some comfort, to reach out and mend that connection that had somehow frayed in the passing months.

He wanted Barty to _understand._  
But he couldn’t. Not as it was, not with such stakes.

“Rest it off. You’ll feel better about all of this with a proper chance to relax,” Barty said, turning to walk back toward the street. Regulus’s fingers twitched with the impulse to grab at his sleeve to stop him, to pull him back -- but his arm remained frozen at his side, and his feet were planted in place as Barty reached the wooded park, disappearing with a quiet _crack_.

* * *

Regulus Black’s room was arranged perfectly around him as he sat in the center of his meticulously smoothed bed. Emerald and silver bedhangings fell around him, much like those at school, and plastered upon the wall was a smattering of newspaper clippings, commemorating any number of terrible things -- things he had participated in, or Barty, or Bella… Trophies, reminders, warnings -- everything they had once been made his stomach turn. Above them, the family crest was set proud and unshaken. _Toujour Pur_. Among the oldest, the purest… kings and queens of the wizarding world, however unwilling the wizarding world seemed to be in acknowledging as much. They were crumbling now, falling to pieces, and he knew he should feel guilty for leaving them, but entwined with that guilt, he felt too tired and angry to let that be enough.

The bag with his horcrux books was tucked away -- _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ now sported the cover of a text about wizarding chess, arguably even less interesting than quidditch history, to most -- and his room was set in order, his Hogwarts trunk unpacked and set to rights, just as it had been every year prior, upon his return home.

“Kreacher,” he said, and the elf appeared with a _pop_. “Find me a locket. Preferably one that my mother won’t miss.”

For a moment, the elf stared curiously -- then disappeared, as instructed. Sticking his legs over the edge of the bed, Regulus scooted out and off before walking over to his desk. Pulling out a piece of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill, Regulus clenched his eyes closed for a moment, willing his hands to move long before they complied. He was dipping the quill in ink, when Kreacher returned some minutes later.

“Kreacher has brought the locket. For what reason does the young master need Mistress’s jewelry?” the elf asked in a tone that was more than a little unnerved to know the answer.

“We’ll be leaving shortly. If there is anything you need to finish for my mother before we go, you may work on that until it’s time,” Regulus said, reaching down to accept the locket, its thin chain cascading through his fingers as he heard the audible crack of Kreacher leaving the room again. It was quite different, this locket, but nothing the enchantment oughtn’t be able to handle. Setting the quill back in his inkwell, Regulus instead pulled out his wand and closed his eyes again, picturing the words on the page he had read some time ago, committed to memory over the past week...an charm of disguise, held in place until its predetermined conditions were met. Next, he picture Slytherin’s locket as he had see it on the threaded tapestry back at Hogwarts, with its thick golden chain and bright green gems curling in the shape of an S.

Though it took several tries to get the look just right, Regulus felt a swell of satisfaction as he let the decoy locket slip from his hand on to the desk. It even made the sound of a locket heavier than it truly was -- some trick of the senses, in place of true transfiguration. He would have to ask for Kreacher’s feedback on the accuracy, though he dreaded to make the elf remember.

Picking up his quill once again, Regulus stared hard at the parchment for a steeling moment before he at last touched it to the page.

Scarcely breathing, Regulus set down his quill and closed the inkwell, staring at the words a moment longer. It was foolish, he knew, to write such a letter with his own initials attached, yet he felt a sort of dark satisfaction at the thought of the Dark Lord realising that the disregard of a seemingly meaningless house-elf was a far graver mistake than he might have anticipated. The Black family had been one too many times, and Regulus would not suffer it. Too many people cared about had already suffered in this war, and in whatever small way he could, Regulus would help keep it contained to one lifetime of suffering, if they could not escape that much.

Losing his senses with his friends had not been beneficial, and with time to reflect, he could see that now. Barty was right in that, at least -- a moment of reprieve was plenty to cool his head. Shouting objections had never been the way to change their minds. He had seen Sirius try and fail that method throughout the majority of their childhood and adolescence, and he did not know why he had thought, even for a mad fleeting second, that it would be any different now. Pulling his loved ones into the truth only put them at risk, guaranteed that they would be first in the line of fire for any retaliation. He knew that. He always had. There was no safety for anyone, and though ignorance may not be enough to protect them, at least they would not be drawing ire.

Sirius, however -- Sirius had been waving down that ire for years now, and nothing Regulus had done or ever could do would stop that, but however much he wanted to go to his brother, to seek some traitorous refuge like some might very well assume he would, he could go to Sirius no more than he could run back to Narcissa. Sirius rubbed shoulders with the reckless -- for that matter, _Sirius_ was reckless -- and the matter of the Dark Lord’s secret was far too delicate a matter to put in the hands of Gryffindors. Trusting Sirius was the same as trusting Potter, as much as it disgusted him to think it, and he could not bring himself to chance it. Furthermore, that Order Sirius had aligned with could easily accept his intel and throw him in Azkaban for being a Death Eater, and no one would blink at it.

No, this was his responsibility, and he could do it by himself. Sirius was better off thinking he was dead, anyway -- for all his claims of caring, he had still left when Regulus needed him, and that was not something he wished to face again.

“Kreacher,” he called again, and again the house-elf appeared. Taking the decoy locket in hand again, he spoke, “I need you to take me to the cave where the Dark Lord instructed you to hide the locket.”

The house-elf’s bulbous eyes flicked between the locket and his master’s face, fighting a look of horror. “Why does Master Regulus have the Dark Lord’s treasure?”

“It’s a decoy,” he said as he stood, trimming his note to a smaller rectangle and folding it smaller still until it fit into the locket. “I’m going to switch it.”

“What...What does Master Regulus mean?” Kreacher asked as the look grew starker on his face.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Regulus said, his voice taking a kinder tone, “I’m not going to make you drink that awful poison again. I just want you to show me how to get there.”

Somehow, that did not seem to ease the house-elf’s anxiety.

“When the time comes, I’m going to take care of it,” Regulus started again, “and you must see to it that we are able to switch the two lockets. I don’t know what it will do-”

“It’s terrible- Master Regulus shouldn’t-”

“-but no matter what, you must ensure the decoy is switched out, and that the real locket makes it back here. I need you to destroy it for me if I don’t make it back, do you understand?” Regulus finished, though ‘ _when_ I don’t make it back,’ was perhaps more appropriate.

Kreacher looked utterly miserable, but when Regulus had his wand in hand and locket stuffed in his pocket, he lingered only a moment, staring at his door, imagining the steps he could trace downstairs to where his mother would return some time tonight, if she had not already. Though he felt confident she had not heard his words (there was far too little screaming, afterwards), that did not mean gossip could not have spread, even contained amongst his friends. Some small part of him wanted to tell her goodbye, to tell her he wasn’t betraying them, not really -- that it was the best thing for everyone…

...but silence was the best thing for everyone, so with a readied _crack_ , he and Kreacher disappeared from 12 Grimmauld Place, greeted with a salty rush of air as the dim light of his room was replaced with the musty darkness of a stoney enclosure. Some awful wash of anxiety washed over him then, seeing no way out save for a pond of sorts on the ground behind him, but there would be no turning back. Uncertainty had no place here, and he could not fall plague to fear now. It needed to be him, needed to be this moment -- and it would be. It had to be.

He could hear the faint and hollow sound of waves coming from some direction, but it was so near inaudible that he could not be certain. Casting a silent _Lumos_ spell, Regulus pressed forward stubbornly, Kreacher tottering along beside him in silence as they approached the stone wall before them, Regulus raked his eyes over the stone from top to bottom. He imagined the Dark Lord standing in the very chamber where Regulus now stood, with the same house-elf in tow. A cold scowl twitched along the edges of his mouth. “How do we get through?”

“Blood magic,” Kreacher answered miserably, wringing his hands.

“Of course. Thank you,” he responded with a wince of his own, pressing his fingers to the chilled rock as his eyes scanned the surface. “Is there a particular spot?” he asked, eyes falling just in time to see Kreacher grinding a rock against his flimsy, aged skin. Panic immediately rose in his throat, and heRegulus fell to his knees, swiping the rock from the elf’s hands. “What are you doing?”

"Kreacher is getting Master Regulus into the Dark Lord's cave. Master need not use his own noble blood, the blood of his ancestors and my dear Mistress. Master Regulus will stay safe..."

Regulus felt an ache in his chest as he shook his head. “I will do it,” he said firmly. Glancing around, he found only the jagged stones Kreacher had been setting against himself. With a frown, Regulus turned his eyes instead to his wand. It would require more precision, but it was better than beating at his skin with grimy rocks. (Do not think, do not think, do not think. Just do.) Taking a steadying breath and readying his left arm -- just opposite of the Dark Mark, now facing the ground -- he cast a slicing spell, clenching his jaws hard with another wince as the skin split. Blood immediately began trickling down his arm, and after directing Kreacher to show him where to activate the Dark Lord’s blood magic failsafe, Regulus pressed his arm to the spot, clenching his eyes closed as the tender skin rubbed the irritating surface. When again he opened them, light was fading from the edges of a revealed entryway, and Kreacher was walking through, looking back with a heartbreaking expression.

“I know this is difficult, Kreacher,” Regulus assured as they crept along the rocky path, the sight of a tiny wooden boat just coming into view, “but I promise to keep you safe. Nothing is going to happen to you.” 

“Kreacher does not worry for himself,” the elf said raspily, “but for Master Regulus.”

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Regulus looked down at Kreacher, steadying his breathing again with no further word. Before them, blackness expanded out in every direction, save for an eerie green glow in the distance. The horcrux. His goal, after all these weeks. It felt surreal, like a gentle tug urging him closer and closer. Together, they climbed into the creaky boat, and with his heart thundering in his chest, Regulus refused to look down at the lake around them, pretending those milky patches in the water were something other than hordes of the dead waiting to drag him to the bottom of their dank and dreary home.

The faint green glow became less and less dim as their boat drew near to the tiny island. The fake locket seem to burn in his pocket, ready to take it place as the decoy. He did not look down -- rather, he trained his eyes on the distant basin, calmed his mind, fumbled to regrasp his determination. It was worth it. It was worth it. He would make his difference, and it would be worth it. If he had to die in this war, he was going to die in a manner that _meant_ something...

With a scarcely audible thud, the boat hit land. Regulus did not realise they had come to a stop until he caught sight of Kreacher climbing back out onto the solid rock surface; swiftly, he followed suit. The basin was before them now, its green glow standing out in the darkness -- the only other light, save for his still-lit wand. Silently, he deactivated it and stuck it in his pocket. He could see Kreacher shaking nervously, stepping forward to approach the potion, but before Kreacher had the chance to grasp the cup, Regulus had secured it, his fingers wrapping tightly around the neck. Sytherin’s locket was obscured by the green liquid, but it would not be much longer…

“Allow Kreacher, please-” the elf pleaded, reaching for the goblet, but as Regulus knelt beside him, he shook his head.

“I need to do this. You have been so helpful, and I thank you for your bravery, coming back here.” Regulus clutched the cup tighter. “I know it must have been difficult for you, after what you went through. Now, we must do this together. Remember, you must switch the lockets and take the real one back home, and when you do, you must tell no one. Not even my mother, not anyone. If anyone asks what I have done or where I have gone, you must pretend not to know. I know you don’t want to do do this, but you must leave me here, when the time comes. That will be safest for everyone.” The words were earnest, unyielding, and he could not look too long at Kreacher's distraught expression as he handed off the fake locket and stood up over the basin.

It was now or never.

Scooping a goblet-full of the potion, Regulus did not pause long for examination before downing a mouthful. Instantly he cringed -- a ripple of pain, horrid images flashing in his mind as he felt the potion physically settling his stomach. A jarring wash of despair seem to fill him to the brim, rushing from his stomach up to his head with a roaring crash. He saw his mother, slack and screaming _(traitor traitor traitor)_ \-- his brother’s back, laughing with Potter -- his father dead in the debris, a group of Death Eaters standing around...pulling off their masks, only to reveal his friends. His mind was filled with crackling flames, with the smell of burning flesh and an otherworldly voice in his head, _you, too, are a monster._ Choking on the feeling as much as the poison itself, Regulus gripped the edge of the basin. His mind did not seem to focus on any one image for long -- death, anger, shame -- but it felt as though he was being ripped in half.

Tensing against the queasy feeling, Regulus took another swallow, and another, and another with a violent shudder.

_Traitor._

“I AM NOT A TRAITOR!” he shouted at the voice, shoving his body into the basin, but it did not budge.

Beside him, Kreacher’s eyes were wide and frantic. “Master Regulus-”

Clamping his eyes shut, he jammed the goblet into the potion and downed another mouthful. He had to keep going -- had to keep going --

_It makes no difference, what you do._

Gripping the side of the basin, Regulus sucked in a shaky breath and peeked through bleary eyes. There wasn’t much left. He could see the faint outline of the horcrux just below the surface. Slytherin’s locket, the horcrux, Dark Lord’s soul -- it would be over soon. With one last dip, he scooped the last of it. In a sudden bout of hope, he tried reaching in to grab the locket from the drained basin, only to have the green liquid transfer back to the bottom again. Banging the goblet against the basin in frustration, he took another steadying breath, dipped into the final scoop once again, and dropped shakily to his knees, eye sealing shut as his forehead pressed to the cold stone of the basin. _Help me._ He felt his lips move and supposed he must have said something, because he could feel Kreacher’s unsteady hands pushing the goblet up to his mouth. A racking sob echoed in his ears, cringing against the fresh wave of despair, though as Kreacher clung tightly to his arm, he could not tell if the sound had been his own or the elf’s. Coughing against the goblet, he felt the strike of unbearable thirst that Kreacher had warned would come next. 

“Get the locket,” he muttered raspily, and with reluctance, Kreacher let go of his arm to switch the real locket with their decoy.

Stumbling toward the lake, Regulus saw the bloated faces of the inferi staring up blankly from just below the surface. He blanched, bracing against the ground with the goblet in one hand, his heartbeat pulsing against the cut on his left arm. It would stain the robes, for certain. Choking out a bitter laugh, he clenched his eyes closed again and scooped the goblet into the water.

The water never reached his lips before he felt cold, slimy hands closing around his wrist. Behind him, he could hear Kreacher shouting his name, but as he opened his mouth to call back, the inferi yanked him downward, face splashing roughly against the surface as water sucked deep in his lungs. Immediately he tried to cough, finding only more water in his mouth, tightening his chest against the lack of oxygen. A terrifying rush of panic jolted through his limbs as he clawed at the inferis’ grasp, all hands and locking arms, cold and slick and relentless. _I don’t want to die,_ he thought desperately, slipping a stubborn arm from one grasp only to fall prey to another.

From above the water, he felt a grip around his ankle, then the jolting tug of apparation pulling him out of the water like a dragging hook in the stomach. They landed in a heap again some cold surface -- he couldn’t quite process where yet, coughing up water with desperate gasps as he pushed himself up from the floor, water pooling around them both. He heard sobbing again, and the harrowing thunk of a head against some hard surface, and through another watery, racking cough, Regulus focused in on Kreacher, just an arm’s length away and slamming his head against the smooth stone floor.

“Master told Kreacher to leave him, but Kreacher couldn’t!” he wailed leaning back for another hit.

Regulus tried to speak, but when it came out as another gasping cough, he simply grabbed the elf, bracing against his chest and shaking his head, arms quivering but locked in place and Kreacher attempted to squirm free. “You helped me,” he managed to choke out, and steadily the elf calmed his thrashing. _(Help me.)_

Looking around, Regulus saw that Kreacher had taken them back to the entrance of the cave, back of the other side of the the stoney door. He could not go home -- certainly could not _stay_ \-- couldn’t show up on Narcissa’s doorstep, not Barty’s, wouldn’t know where to find Sirius even if he _wanted_ to. His mind was reeling, chest thundering in time with the panic still quivering in his bones. They had so many homes, but where to go? All of a sudden, he couldn’t remember who was alive and who was dead, which homes were safe and which were certain to have summer visitors at this time of year… For several minutes, he sat on the stone, Kreacher slowly calming in his grip as his own heart gradually slowed again.

“Great Aunt Lycoris,” Regulus said after a moment, again punctuated with another cough. “Take me to her old home. It ought to be empty, at least for now. No one has been there in at least a decade, I would expect”

Without delay, Kreacher transported them with a telltale pop, and again they landed on the floor -- this time a floor of wood, aged and dusty and clearly uncared for, as of late. He could not stay, he knew… whether or not they realised he was alive, whether or not they suspected he might run to their family homes, the risk was too great to trust.

For tonight, however, it would be his sanctuary.

“Give me the locket,” he said, holding out a hand and grasping the locket tightly as soon as the cold metal hit his palm. “Thank you, Kreacher,” he said shakily, “For everything. I need you to go home and take care of my mother for me. I can’t come home right now…”

“But Master Regulus-” Kreacher started, the agony still lingering in his raspy voice.

“You will keep me safe by not telling anyone what happened tonight,” Regulus interrupted firmly. “You’ve done a good thing, tonight. Now go home, and stay safe.”

Kreacher looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but as instructed, the elf disappeared from view with a crack, leaving Regulus sitting in a pool of water on his dead (great) aunt’s floor. Taking another steadying breath, Regulus stood and looked around. Eerie, how forgotten it all felt -- he could see where family had picked at trinkets here and there, yet it felt somehow foreign, despite being one of their family homes. She had died when he was little -- he barely remembered more than hazy flashes -- yet it made for as good a refuge as any.

He would need to set up alarms before allowing himself to crash -- there was no telling what state her old wards were in -- and until that was done, he could not permit himself to relax. 

Regulus was on his own now, and there would be no going home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from "We Are" by Ana Johnsson.


End file.
